The White Plumes of Navarre

Before the Curtain Rises
CHAPTER I. The Day of Barricades
CHAPTER II. Claire Agnew
CHAPTER III. The Professor of Eloquence
CHAPTER IV. Little Colette of Collioure
CHAPTER V. The Sprouting of Cabbage Jock
CHAPTER VI. The Archer's Cloak
CHAPTER VII. The Great Name of Guise
CHAPTER VIII. The Golden Lark in Orleans Town
CHAPTER IX. The Rebellion of Herodias's Daughter
CHAPTER X. The Golden Duke
CHAPTER XI. The Best-known Face in the World
CHAPTER XII. The Waking of the Bearnais
CHAPTER XIII. A Midnight Council
CHAPTER XIV. Eyes of Jade
CHAPTER XV. Mistress Catherine
CHAPTER XVI. La Reine Margot
CHAPTER XVII. Mate and Checkmate
CHAPTER XVIII. The Apostle of Peace
CHAPTER XIX. Death Warnings
CHAPTER XX. The Blood on the Kerchief
CHAPTER XXI. The Tiger in the Fox's Trap
CHAPTER XXII. Berák the Lightning and Toàh His Dog
CHAPTER XXIII. The Three Sons of Madame Amélie
CHAPTER XXIV. Cousin Raphael, Lord of Collioure
CHAPTER XXV. Claire's Embarrassment of Choice
CHAPTER XXVI. First Council of War
CHAPTER XXVII. Second Council of War
CHAPTER XXVIII. Third Council of War
CHAPTER XXIX. The Shut House in Money Street
CHAPTER XXX. Jean-aux-Choux takes his Wages
CHAPTER XXXI. The Way of the Salt Marshes
CHAPTER XXXII. In their Clutches
CHAPTER XXXIII. And One was Not!
CHAPTER XXXIV. Bishop, Archbishop, and Angelical Doctor
CHAPTER XXXV. The Place of Eyes
CHAPTER XXXVI. Valentine la Niña
CHAPTER XXXVII. The Wild Animal—Woman
CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Vengeance of Valentine la Niña
CHAPTER XXXIX. Saved by Sulks
CHAPTER XL. The Mas of the Mountain
CHAPTER XLI. "And Lazarus came Forth!"
CHAPTER XLII. Secrets of the Prison House
CHAPTER XLIII. In Tarragona Bay
CHAPTER XLIV. Valentine and her Vengeance
CHAPTER XLV. Valentine finds Claire Worthy
CHAPTER XLVI. King and King's Daughter
CHAPTER XLVII. Great Love—and Greater
After the Curtain

BEFORE THE CURTAIN RISES

The night was hot in Paris. Breathless heat had brooded over the city all Saturday, the 23rd of August, 1572. It was the eve of Saint Bartholomew. The bell of Saint Germain l'Auxerrois had just clashed out the signal. The Louvre was one blaze of lights. Men with lanterns and poleaxes, as if going to the shambles to kill oxen, hurried along the streets.

Only in the houses in which were lodged the great Huguenot gentlemen, come to the city for the marriage of the King's sister Marguerite to the King of Navarre, there were darkness and silence. None had warned them—or, at least, they had taken no warning. If any suspected, the word of a King, his sworn oaths and multitudinous safe-conducts, lulled them back again into security.

In one chamber, high above the courtyard, a light burned faint and steady. It was that beside the bed of the great Admiral—Coligny. He had been treacherously wounded by the arquebuse of one of the guard of the King's brother—Monsieur de France, Henry Duke of Anjou, afterwards to be known to history as Henry III., the favourite son of Catherine de Medici, the cunningest, and the most ungrateful.

There watched by that bedside many grave men, holding grave discourse with each other and with the sick man, concerning the high mysteries of the religion, pure and reformed, of the state of France, and their hopes of better days for the Faith as it had been delivered to the saints.

And at the bed-foot, with towels, bandages, and water in a silver salver ready for service, one young lad, a student of Geneva, fresh from Calvin and Beza, held his tongue and opened wide his ears.

"Pray, Merlin de Vaux," said the wounded Admiral to his aged pastor, "pray for life if such be God's will, that we may use it better—for death (the which He will give us in any case), that the messenger may not find us unprepared."

And Merlin prayed, the rest standing up, stern, grave, prepared men, with bowed and reverent heads. And the Genevan Scot thought most of his dead master Calvin, whom, in the last year of his life, he had often seen so stand, while his own power rocked under him in the city of his adoption, and the kingdoms of the earth stormed about him like hateful waves of the sea.

And somewhat thus-wise prayed good Merlin.

"Thou, O Lord, hast put down the mighty from their seats and has exalted them of low degree! Clay are all men in Thy hands—potter's clay, broken shards or vessels fit for altar-service. Yet Thou has sent us, Thy servants, into the wild, where we have seen things, and thought things, and given us many warnings, so that when Thou standest at the door and knockest, we may be ready for Thy coming!"

Then at these words, prompt as an echo, the house leaped under the heavy noise of blows delivered upon the outer door. And the Admiral of France, sitting up in his bed, yet corpse-pale from his recent wound, lifted his hand and said, "Hush, be still—my Lord standeth without! For dogs and murderers, false kings and queens forsworn, are but instruments in His hand. It is God who calls us to His holy rest. For me, I have long been ready. I go with no more thought than if my chariot waited me at the door."

Then he turned to the Huguenot gentlemen who were grouped about his bed. This one and that other had tried to catch a glimpse of the assailants from the windows. But in vain. For the door was in a recess which hid all but the last of the guard which the King had set about the house.

"It is only Cosseins and his men," said one; "they will hold us safe. We have the King's word. He placed the guard himself."

"The hearts of Kings are unsearchable," said the Admiral. "Put not your trust in princes, but haste ye to the garret, where is a window that gives upon the roof. There is no need that young and valiant men should perish with a wounded man and an old. Go and fight for the remnant that shall be preserved. If it be the Lord's will, He shall yet take vengence by your arms!"